


A Different Time

by Luckyfirerabbit



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe, F/F, Getting to know you, Hurt/Comfort, feral character becoming civilized, remembering how to people, soft gay shit, tags will change as I go if I continue this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29982180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckyfirerabbit/pseuds/Luckyfirerabbit
Summary: (Taking elements from the Shatranj continuity such as OC's, a few other elements)A plot bunny I had about Striga and Morana meeting under different circumstances, the main difference being that Striga has been used to terrorize people under the thrall of a human for a rather long time.
Relationships: Morana/Striga (Castlevania)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 15





	A Different Time

**Author's Note:**

> Taking cues from the Shatranj continuity, OC's from that story will probably pop up here, as well as some other elements in regards to the Sisters and their back stories etc. Dialogue with standard quotations and punctuation but Italicized dialogue should be read as a speaking different language, unless the only people talking are speaking the same language.
> 
> Otherwise everything is par for the course, as in these ladies fall in love in the end.
> 
> If there is desire for more of this story, please leave a comment. Kudos are wonderful, but they don't really convey to me more than "I enjoyed it". Please just say so if you would like to read more, and thanks in advance.

Morana had her shadows trail them for a few weeks, at first just to see if the rumors surrounding this seemingly typical traveling caravan were true. Easier said than done for a small band of vampire assassins, but they made due and kept pace, as was expected. They had to catch up to the caravan every night, and would watch them until sunrise forced them to find shelter, then do it all over again the next night, and carried on this way for little more than a month.

Rumor had it the caravan was going from town to town and ransacking them, yet there had been no real evidence of them having been save for bloodstains, empty houses and newly filled graves. Not many, mind you, but certainly enough to have been meant as an example and compel any others to comply. That much was true, but they weren't certain on one detail; supposedly they were demanding the villagers they encountered to surrender all their wealth under threat of a thralled vampire.

All they had in regards to evidence of that particular element was a wagon well covered in heavy canvas, and heavily laden with lengths of chains and locks. The shadows had yet to catch a glimpse of what was inside, as by the time they caught up to the caravan, whatever pillaging they might have done was completed. The shadows could smell fresh blood coming from the covered wagon on occasion, so there was that much.

Anything of note was reported to Morana via a small transmission mirror, and she dictated their maneuvers in turn. She told them to continue as ordered, simply follow, and then to report back again should the caravan make their way near enough to the castle. Unless, before then, they could confirm that they had indeed enslaved a vampire. She didn't say what they were to do in that case, but they obeyed all the same.

The caravan would journey near the castle before the shadows could discover exactly what they were hiding under canvas and chains, and from there Morana directed them to wait as a contingent of palace guards were on the way to intercept. The humans gave in without too much fuss, putting out their camp fires and falling in line with the armed guards to follow them to the castle. The shadows fell in line as well, still undiscovered, and still keen to their task to find out exactly what the humans were so insistent on concealing.

The obnoxious, bearded man who seemed to be in charge assured them time and again that it was only keepsakes and valuables; "We're relocating after our town washed away in a flood," he claimed. All the vampires in attendance, even the ones he didn't know were there knew the bastard was lying, not that they alluded to so much. The ranking officer simply said "If what you say is true then you will be sent on your way."

Almost the entire remaining number of the palace guard are standing in file in the main courtyard of the palace, shoulder to shoulder starting at the large double doors leading inside. Morana stands in front of the double doors, Lenore at her side, and she glares across the steadily closing distance between herself and the bearded man at the front of the line of humans. She wonders if Lenore can sense the same egotistical streak that she does. Or that...was that magic? Was this man a magician? Morana further scans the incoming crowd, the guards beginning to spread out but still surrounding the humans, and catches eyes with one of her shadows. What looks like a stray movement, a reflexive brush of her hand over her own ear, is a signal to her assassins to beware. Lenore knows the signal as well, and takes heed.

Lenore and Morana approach together, each with a unique bearing to their strides; Lenore is open and wholly approachable while Morana is keenly focused and carries herself with distinct purpose that is known only to herself. Being the seasoned diplomat, Lenore approaches the bearded man immediately, smiling sweetly and introducing herself before attempting to lull him into conversation. She's putting on her softest, most relaxed voice and wrangles the entirety of his attention with ease.

"Queen Carmilla simply wishes for her citizens to be safe, you understand." she explains. "And if you mean to settle here in Styria, well, it's convenient that we met, don't you think?"

"Y-you don't really mean to go through _all_ of our belongings, do you...?"

"Of course not, no, but I'm afraid we must be _thorough_. I'm _sure_ you have nothing to hide."

"N-no, of course not, not at all."

Most of Morana's shadows start falling in around her when she's close enough, earning stifled gasps from the humans who had no idea they were there until now.

" _Find where that stench of blood is coming from_." her instructions are in Arabic, as all her shadows can speak it. " _No need to be subtle_ , _they can't escape us now_." And then she breaks away, doubling back to join Lenore.

It takes no time at all, as one of her assassins that had remained out of sight had already seen to the matter, having hidden themselves by clinging to the undercarriage of the covered wagon. Surely this is where the blood was, though it had aged and become dull. But there was a great deal of it here, they could smell it in the wood, so there was no getting the stink out or covering it up, and there is certainly no hiding it from a vampire. As quick as a thought they move, scrambling out and up the side of the wagon to the top, the distinct, dull ring of iron under their feet as the touch down. There are bars beneath the canvas.

The bearded man snaps around halfway through a shout when Morana snatches him by the collar and jerks him down to her level. She holds his frightened gaze silently, but Lenore pipes up behind him. "I thought you had nothing to hide, good sir?"

His flabby, fuzzy jowls shudder as his jaw tries to work and make words form, but he knows what is staring him in the face and simply can't.

Now that she's close to him, has hands on him, Morana can make out the faint, warm buzz of magic. He's not a magician, no, not likely...probably something he is wearing, she thinks. Moving nothing but her eyes she spies his hands, his ears -no rings to be found- and then focuses on his broad neck to find a stretch of something braided there. With quick precision she takes her free hand and hooks the cord with a single talon, tugging against something heavy and dangling beneath his shirt. He's blubbering again as she pulls it free and examines the iron ring on the end of the cord, the size of someone's palm and glowing with orange symbols that Morana doesn't readily recognize.

Morana continues to pull, drawing the necklace upward with the intent to remove it from him, only to have the man squirm and snarl at her until she resolutely shoves him to his knees. This sets off a chain reaction of movement, the other members of the caravan appearing to panic, something looking to try to run only to be stopped by guards with halberds at the ready. The commotion was loud but short lived.

"D-don't!"

"What is this?" Morana hisses. She still has a firm hand at his collar, and now he's weakly clawing at it, reaching for the pendant with whimpering desperation. "Stop sniveling and explain yourself." she commands.

"P-p-please give it back. I swear, we'll move on, w-we won't hurt another soul and you'll never hear of us again,"

"I have no doubt of that." her eyes narrow on him, the pitch pupils slitted. "Now, this is the last time I will ask,"

"She _does_ mean that," Lenore assures him, sounding amused.

"What _is_ this?"

" _Lady Morana_ ," echoes across the courtyard in Arabic, drawing all eyes.

She sees her shadow atop the wagon, their hands full of dragging canvas, and decides not to strain herself by shouting. She drags the man still whining across the flagstones, pendant tightly clutched in her other hand as she pushes her way through stock still bodies of humans and vampires alike.

"No-no-no-no, please, she'll kill me," he sobs pitifully, but appears powerless. He starts to cry when he meets Lenore's insincere smile as she looks down at him and follows behind.

Most of the chains have been broken and lay on the ground like dead serpents. The vampire atop the wagon has hefted just enough of the canvas up to expose one side, revealing the bars and whatever was inside. With no hesitation, Morana strides up to have a look, effortlessly jerking the man along until he smacks against the wagon wheel with a startled squeal.

The bed of the wagon is black with blood, new and old. It clots around portions of the bars to resemble rust, and the moon casts shadows to spill across and reveal it all, along with the creature inside. At first, the only thing Morana can really focus on is the steady orange glow, very similar to the glowing symbols on the pendant, then the rest of the picture, and what it means, falls into place one piece at a time.

The symbols circle a heavy looking iron collar, little more than a manacle, that's fastened around a narrow neck. But the symbols, as well as much of the rest of the body, is obscured by what looked to be an unkempt mass of sable hair. Morana can just make out bony hands and long talons on the ends of thin but strangely powerful looking limbs. The skin is deathly pale and appears withered in a way.

Now Morana's pulling the man to his unsteady feet, shoving him up against the bars where he takes loud, panicking breaths. Sweat is rolling down his face, his fat hands gripping vice-like around Morana's forearm, and he can't seem to find the guts to open his eyes.

"P-please,"

"Tell me the truth, _pig_." she snarls, fangs bared on the chance that he can look at her. And tell he does, words readily spilling out of him like the tears from his eyes. He had stolen the pendant from someone who stole it from someone else who hadn't been alive to say who they had stolen it from, so the only thing he didn't know about it was how long it had been linked to the vampire behind the bars. Otherwise he withheld nothing, admitting without hesitation that the rumors were true.

"B-but I never harmed the little ones. O-or the womenfolk, I swear." As if that made any difference.

"How does it work?"

He's silent a moment, perhaps surprised by the question. "J-just holding it lets you control the thing. Just a thought is all it takes."

And a thought is all she cares to spare him, feeling the magic stir in her hand. In the next instant there's movement behind the bars, and then the man is screaming.

Frighteningly long, withered arms whip out from between the bars and latch onto him, one taloned hand hooking into his chest, the other taking an impossible grip of the lip of his fat gut. They pull and pull, the wagon rocking on its axles, iron groaning under the force as those arms try to drag him through. The hand in his chest rips away, tearing cloth and flesh with a burst of blood, only to close again in the man's short hair and yank back. The space between the bars is barely big enough for his head to fit through, and it passes with a painful pop, but that pain is nothing to what comes next; his terrified screams are throttled into nothing, crushed by the distinct gnashing of teeth, and those powerful arms keep pulling until the man's body crunches into shape to be dragged through.

Now all the other humans are screaming and trying to run again, and again are unsuccessful. They are brought to heel and silenced, the guards waiting patiently for direction.

Morana peers through the bars, still unable to see the full state of the thralled vampire, but now for the fresh dousing of blood. But moonlight and torchlight catch the edges of fangs and talons clearly enough, and two slitted pupils stare wildly back at her, emitting an orange glow much like the symbols about the manacle.

"Poor thing must be starving." Lenore says softly, sounding genuine for a change. "What should we do?"

Morana didn't have to think about it, her tone emerging as comfortably cold. "See that they are properly fed."

Not a one of those humans would leave the palace grounds alive that night. Many, _so_ _many_ were offered up to the vampire in the cage, torn through the bars and dispatched to sate their seemingly bottomless hunger. Morana didn't like the idea of keeping them confined, but it was better this way; a vampire this ravenous would decimate every village within a mile of here in a single night, a risk that didn't need to be taken simply to spare Morana some moral discomfort.

When there were no live bodies left, Morana touched the magic one last time, simply willing the now glutted vampire to sleep. That lanky, withered body slumps over with a thump, wild eyes closed and that snarling visage relaxed though lined with something resembling age -a state a vampire can only achieve through chronic lack of sustenance. Now it was safe to open the heavy iron door of the wagon, safe enough for two guards to pull the vampire out of the shadows and into the moonlight.

Seeing them - _her_ \- now brings a pained softness to Morana's face. It's not often she sees her own kind appear so frail, or for fragility to touch her unbeating heart this way, but both are present in this moment. Sympathy swells in her, and the discomfort from before sharpens.

"Suppose I'll go inform Carmilla of all this." Lenore sighs, and she doesn't miss how her words make Morana start, as if having been pulled from her thoughts unexpectedly. "You'll see to our new guest's comfort?"

"Is everything a joke to you?" Because Morana is _far_ from liking the flippant amusement in her Sister's tone.

"Not at all, I just found all of that to be generally entertaining. I'm not entirely certain how I feel about _this_ , though I am _certainly_ curious." she admits, lilting her head. "I'll see you inside."

Morana chooses one of the larger cells in the dungeons for her; it's a safety precaution that she somewhat hates but knows is necessary, and finds comfort in thinking it a courtesy. When she wakes she will have room to roam, and if she is lucid enough to ask to leave, they would surely allow it.

She arranges for it to be as comfortable as possible, sending for blankets and pillows and plenty of blood, as well as some clothes -the poor woman is draped in rancid, blood soaked rags that were barely holding on- and a wash basin full of water. All of it is left readily accessible in the cell, and then the heavy door groans closed, the lock cracking loudly as it turns.

Morana lingers a short while, at first pondering the bars before pondering through them. Her gaze is fixated on the glowing symbols again, on the collar, and then they drop to the pendant in her hand. The cunning, predatory region of her mind wants to keep it, to study it, learn how it works and use it, but another part of her is disgusted by the mere sight of it. The other part is the one that acknowledges that the pendant is carved of simple stone, and the one that compels her to flex her fingers until the pendant cracks and comes undone -the magic with it. The sigils darken, and the buzz of its power vanishes, likewise for the collar, though the iron of it remains intact and in place.

Morana takes a breath and exhales quietly, pleased by the spell's absence. "Pleasant dreams, whoever you are." She says softly, barely above a whisper. "I hope tomorrow brings better things for you." And she leaves the cell block wondering why she cares so much.

( _II_ )

It is decided almost immediately by the attending guard that this vampire is far from capable of speaking at all, much less enough to properly convey the desire to leave with words.

First thing in the evening, all was quiet, she had appeared to wake up and, still withered looking and moving with an air of exhaustion and stiffness, found her way to the large pitcher of blood that had been left for her to promptly drain it. Then she realized she wasn't alone and everything went sideways, like something snapped and the poor woman lost her mind -had it been there to begin with. She lunged at the bars and hit them with a loud, resounding crash, gripping them impossibly tight and pulling with what looked like the intent to pry them apart with a wild, fanged shriek.

At first all the guard could do was stare, mentally praying that the bars -and his bladder- would hold, which they did. Then his mind decided that her ravenous screaming was ten times more terrifying somehow and he quickly left -not just because he was so unsettled, but because Lady Morana had wished to know of any changes. He convinced himself that was the chief reason for leaving his post.

_Why didn't he understand me? ...Me...mine. Thoughts. These are my thoughts. I'm thinking. Why did he leave?_ Why wouldn't the words in her frayed mind reach her mouth and come out properly? Why was everything so unfamiliar and foreign feeling - _is that really my voice?_ \- and so god damn broken inside? Why can't this collar come off - _fucking collar,_ _ **fucking**_ _collar,_ _ **fucking collar**_...

There is so much trapped in her head, and after god knows how long of having no will or voice of her own, all she can do is scream in an attempt to let it out. She screams until she has no strength left to stay up, eventually sliding to the floor, her talons whining against the iron until her elbows and knees settle on stone. Now her body feels much too heavy, her throat dry and raw. She wants to sleep again, so she crawls _-when was it that I last stood up straight?_ \- back to the heap of blankets, burying deep beneath cover until she felt invisible. Which wasn't all that difficult, she realized, as she was well acquainted with the sensation from...before whatever this would turn out to be.

And there she stays for...some time, drifting in and out of sleep, keeping as still as possible to not draw attention to herself. When she's aware enough she listens intently, focusing on voices when she could hear them and taking whatever stock of her situation that she could. Something in her still healing mind could understand what she heard, or could at least parse the intent perhaps, but there's a gaping hole in the middle of it all that keeps her from fully comprehending anything. Like it had all been there _once_ , but had faded. Had she simply _forgotten_ language?

The only time she really moved with any intent is when she could smell blood, aware enough to be curious as to why it kept being provided. It's the first puzzling clue that the situation she found herself in might not be so terrible, if these folk were actually seeing to her being fed. For some time she simply drinks it and returns to bed, paying no conscious mind to the other amenities that had been offered -they weren't as important as blood, and her body regularly reminded her of that with aching flesh and fatigue. It became the routine that she measured time with, sleep-ache-awake-drink-sleep, no thought or care given as to the accuracy of such metrics.

At some point she spends an entire night staring into the corner of the cell that she has laid claim to, trying to remember her own name, and thinks trying to catch smoke would have been easier. But it does come, and when it does there is the phantom sensation of her mind opening up, like a blooming flower -bright, intense, all but blinding.

From there, little by little, she begins to pull her separate pieces back together to reassemble. And she adds a new facet to the metric; sleep-ache-awake-feed- _remember_ -sleep.

A number of nights pass before Morana visited the cell again, not for a lack of desire as much as a lack of time. A great amount of work needed to be done, as always. In any case, the reports from the guard had been mostly promising, and she is eager to see for herself just how well her guest is faring now. Lenore accompanies her out of little more than sheer curiosity.

The watchman salutes the Sisters before being dismissed, simply obeying and promptly removing himself to take up a new post in the corridor outside the cell block. Lenore and Morana come to stand before the bars of the only occupied cell, quick to spot the body wrapped in blankets half propped against the bars, a now empty pitcher that once contained blood resting under folded arms. She appears asleep and unaware of their presence.

Something in Morana is taken aback by the fresh, overwhelming youth in the woman's face. That faded, weathered skin is lush again, cleaner now and pale, almost silvery, and conforms to the fierce, sharp lines of cheekbones, a stern brow, a strong jaw and proud chin. All this framed by wild, waving tresses of sable hair makes for a striking image indeed.

Lenore catches her Sister staring and manages to withhold the little laugh she thinks to make. Instead she clears her throat, not meaning to be as loud as she was, and the noise is enough to stir the sleeping vampire awake.

Morana finds herself struck again, this time by intense green eyes that are somehow even more piercing now _without_ the glow of magic behind them. "Good evening." the greeting should have been reflexive, but Morana found herself having to will the words to come. "How are you feeling?"

For a few seconds there is no reaction, then the woman tips back her head and cocks it to one side, her brow furrowing gently, curious. Now Morana can see the edges of the strong cords of her neck, mostly concealed by the manacle that is now snug to her skin. It had been loose before, now it jumps when the woman swallows.

"Do you speak?"

Another beat, then. " _I...do not...understand_." the words she forms are slow, deliberate, but uncertain, as if she is remembering or relearning as she goes. Her voice is surprisingly deep and soft.

But Morana does understand. " _A Slav_?"

Those green eyes brighten and sable brows rise. " _Yes_."

Morana can't help but cut a brief smile, a momentary appreciation for her own intelligence. " _I had asked how you were feeling_."

The woman nods, a little thing, and then a puzzled expression pulls lines in her face. " _I feel_... _things_. _Not sure what_."

" _Understandable. I imagine you've been through quite an ordeal_."

She simply hums, acknowledging but not necessarily confirming. "... _I am a prisoner_?" she asks abruptly.

" _Not at all_."

" _Why bars then_?"

" _A simple precaution_. _You were decidedly unwell when we discovered you_." Morana explains softly. " _If you wish to leave_ , _simply say so_ , _no one will stop you_."

A short silence as she's staring again, her head tilting in the other direction, and then something like realization flickers in her eyes. " _You gave_... _the pig_."

Morana's face scrunches, confused, certain she heard right but uncertain of the meaning.

She must have noticed, understood, and goes on to say " _You let me eat him_." and she attempts a smirk that doesn't quite fit right.

Morana then gives an exaggerated nod. " _I see_. _Yes, I did_. _Only seemed appropriate_."

" _Did you give_ ," she stops, having to find the word, " _my mind back_?"

" _Yes_."

She nods slowly. "... _Give your name_?" and there's a softness to her words that makes Morana's dead heart clench.

" _Of course_ ," Morana feels the heat of embarrassment in her face. " _I am Morana, and this the Sister Lenore_."

" _This is_ your _cage_?"

" _Oh no_ ," Morana restrains a laugh. " _This is the palace of Carmilla_ , _Queen of Styria_. _Lenore and I are two of her advisers_."

Another nod, another small noise of acknowledgment. " _Then Morana_... _Sister Lenore_ ," it takes effort to form their names, both unfamiliar feeling to her already handicapped mouth, " _Thank you_."

The two Sisters nod in unison, making one sable brow lift for a second.

" _I_ ' _m_ _sure you have more questions_ , _but perhaps we could adjourn to more comfortable accommodations_? _Are you still hungry_?"

A shrug. A nod, with a look of veiled, minor shame.

" _We have provided some clothes for you_ , _so once you are dressed we can see to that as well_."

She shifts, moving to stand up and perching on the balls of her feet and her knuckles, ape-like. " _Clothes do not fit_."

" _My apologies_ ," Morana says quickly, reflexively. " _Too large_?" Then she watches as the woman stands, unsteadily at first and bracing one _big_ hand on the bars. Morana's eyes steadily widen as her stature stretches higher and higher, eventually straightening to her full, comparably incredible height.

" _Too small_."

"Oh my," Lenore exhales, something in her tenses when those green eyes cut to her, set curiously as she likely hadn't understood.

Morana is presently silent, having gone several seconds without blinking. Not only is this woman frighteningly tall, perhaps a head away from hitting the ceiling within the cell, but the spread of her shoulders beneath the blanket is _impressive_. Morana can see her arms, once ropey and frail looking, now heavy with meaty musculature, only accentuating the threat of those talons, making her hands resemble bear paws.

It's in this moment that Morana realizes the full scope of that bastard's abuse; for such a drastic physical change, he had to have been _literally_ starving her. It makes her heart twist, and pulls her out of her blatant ogling.

" _We will remedy this immediately_." Morana somewhat stumbles and fusses her hands in an attempt to cover up her impropriety. She asks Lenore to relay the message to the guard, the little Sister seeming more than happy to do so and giving Morana a certain look that makes her want to hiss at her. It isn't until Lenore is out of sight that she speaks again. " _But I suppose we could open the door at least_ , _no need to keep it locked_."

Morana fetches the ring of keys from the guard's desk, fingers still unsteady as she finds the proper key and unlocks the cell door with an echoing, metallic crack. She pulls the door open, hinges squealing, and steps away to patiently wait.

She's slow to move, cautious, wary of the reality of all this. Her mind still isn't _quite_ back together, certainly far from whole, so she can't help but weigh this for a moment or two. Then, with thready certainty, she takes the steps and stoops low enough to pass through the opening in the bars.

Morana thinks she looks somehow taller still now, in the better light. Then she catches herself staring again when those green eyes meet hers. She wilts, a hand rising to her mouth to cover a sheepish sort of laugh, her mind sprinting to find something to say. " _How rude of me_ , _I never asked your name_."

Uneasiness passes over the taller vampire's face like a shadow. Her brow furrows and she thinks...then nods once. " _Striga_."

" _Then, Striga,_ " she likes the feel of saying her name, " _Allow me to officially welcome you to Styria, though I hope you'll forgive the poor lodgings_."

" _Better than death_." Her tone and the ill-fitting smirk suggest humor, but the awkward delivery challenges the idea.

Morana laughs gently anyway, perhaps to error on the side of cautious. " _Perhaps I could start making amends by taking that collar off_?"

Striga's eyes are bright and intently fixed on her. " _Please_." comes a quick rasp of a request. And in the next instant she's reaching up to pull her abundant mess of hair aside, and bending that Morana might reach it. At first she frets at the sight of it, unable to readily discern how it is fastened together, having expected a painfully obvious closure and lock. When there simply is none to be found, she realizes that this had never been meant to come off. Perhaps it had been magical once as well. Still, it had a hinge, and it is easy enough for Morana to work the edge of a well kept talon beneath the head of the iron spoke holding it together and negotiate it loose. After that, it's easy enough even for a vampire of her lithe stature to bend the iron open until it can accommodate Striga's powerful neck.

Striga exhales loudly, a sound of relief as her big hands cuff the back of her own neck and appear to rub. Morana spies the emergence of goosebumps across her pale skin, what she can see of it, and feels her ribs clenching with something like sympathy. When Striga looks at her again, her face seems brighter, softer somehow, and Morana feels her ribs tightening again with something entirely new, something she hesitates to name. Striga looks at her as if she'd just hung the moon, and Morana doesn't quite know what to do with it.

Part Two

The passed week had been...interesting. Morana expected a number of unusual things, primarily odd ticks and behaviors from Striga that had no doubt carried over from her time...in captivity. She didn't expect to find herself so touchy about the matter, for one thing, perhaps even more so than Striga herself. With that being said, Morana intentionally sidestepped the subject unless Striga brought it up, otherwise meaning for her to steadily acclimate to life among her own kind again, a life where she is treated like a person instead of a tool.

Watching Striga trying to navigate this new...everything, was a mixture of amusing and heartbreaking for Morana. Amusing in that instead of sitting in a chair at a table, Striga would squat on the cushion, perched there like a large bird to hold her plate and eat with nauseating enthusiasm and utensils in clumsy hands.

She assures Morana she is more than comfortable to eat this way - " _Am fine_ ," she's always fine, even when she clearly isn't. 

Eventually Morana realizes that it is simply how she sits.

It's amusing in that interacting with others is completely conditional to whether or not an animal is present, as Striga will readily and unashamedly give all of her attention to any and every creature she can  _ aside _ from the people actually trying to talk to her. Lenore keeps a number of pets, and trying to engage with Striga in the presence of any one of them feels futile, even for someone as tenacious as Morana.

Morana doesn't give much worry to it for now, though, as the animals appear to relax her, tug her a little further out of her shell. And they made her smile, even laugh, and Morana was helplessly endeared by that.

But it is heartbreaking in that Striga is initially wary of  _ everything _ . Morana can see it in her eyes, even when they sit down to eat together, or simply to occupy the same space, Striga waits to see what Morana or anyone else in line of sight will do before she even considers relaxing. Any movement she can hear and can't see is met with tense awareness, like she's bracing, and any movement she can see she openly tracks until it's out of sight. Then she keeps listening, waiting, until some instinct tells her there's nothing to worry about and she is able to return her focus to the matter at hand.

And it's heartbreaking to see Striga shy from even the potential notion of being touched. For Morana, that particular aversion feels personal, as someone of the exact opposite temperament, and she cannot imagine what it must feel like to be reflexively afraid of physical contact. Seeing Striga flinch or show her teeth or openly snarl at someone that got too close for her liking makes her dead heart ache in a way it never has. She can't help but wonder why it matters so much, a question she poses to herself rather frequently these passed nights.

Then there's a breakthrough.

Morana tries to spend at least an hour with Striga every night, not just out of a self imposed obligation, but out of a fondness she refuses to talk about with anyone. Striga never turns her company away, though Morana always insists that she's free to do so, and Striga makes a face like she doesn't quite understand the idea of having that kind of control, a half cocked scowl that lingers for a moment or two. But, by the end of their conversations, Striga has no apparent issues in wielding that control by resolutely ignoring Morana in favor of building a fire in the hearth and simply sitting in front of it to watch. Morana caught on to that particular behavior very quickly.

Morana wants to make an effort to socialize her, help her find her way back, and being one of the few people in the castle that speaks her language, Morana feels uniquely qualified for the task. So, most nights they simply talk, albeit one-sidedly, and Morana readily compliments Striga on even small improvements. Like how Striga cleans up so nicely, never mind how that has nothing to do with anything.

Tonight doesn't feel particularly different or momentous in any way, it feels like any other as Striga allows Morana inside the guest chambers that have been provided for her to occupy. The first choice of lodgings had been too large, enough to make Striga wholly unable to sleep -something about feeling too exposed, but this room apparently suited her much better. She seemed better rested at least, which is something.

Morana spots Striga squatting atop her bed, acknowledging Morana with a tilt of her chin as her mouth was busy. It took Morana few seconds of staring to realize what she was doing; is she...gnawing at her fingers? ...Oh, no, she's biting her nails.

" Is something wrong ?"

Striga grunts, winces as she seems to have bitten herself. " Too long . Don't feel right ." Then she goes right back to it, biting herself again with an irritated sneer.

Morana can't help but stare a little longer, puzzled and amused and something else she isn't sure of. Then she gently clears her throat. " There ' s a better way , if you would let me help ."

Striga casts those wary eyes at her, and for a second Morana considers withdrawing the suggestion. Then Striga is climbing down from the bed and padding barefoot -shoes were still something of a struggle- across the marble floor towards her. Morana got lost for a moment in her height when Striga stood in front of her, those green eyes still wary but more curious now, and centered her attention with a shake of her head and a laugh. " Come with me ?" Never a command, only a request.

Striga appears to study her briefly, a slight lilt of her head, then there's a soft grunt and a nod of confirmation.

They go to Morana's chambers, and from the second they come through the door, Striga's head is on a swivel to take it all in. Her raw, unbridled curiosity is actually palpable, and Morana catches herself smiling at the weight of it on her senses. Morana keeps a subtle eye on Striga as she wanders through the room, looking without touching, appearing enchanted by the mountings on the wall -paintings and maps and weapons from Morana's many travels over the centuries.

Morana takes a moment to go to her wardrobe, opening it to find a book-sized wooden box with brass fixtures and placing it on the large common table. From there she carefully approaches Striga, coming from an angle that would assure she is visible in the vigilant vampire's periphery. She doesn't appear to be on guard at present, much too engrossed with a particularly large map, but Morana didn't wish to risk needlessly surprising her.

Striga turns her head long enough to acknowledge Morana before quickly turning back to the map. " Styria ?" She asks.

Morana smirks and inches a little closer, reaching out with one talon. She looks to Striga, eager for her reaction, and is somewhat disappointed with the single nod.

" Styria is your home ?"

" Was I born in Styria ?" Another nod. " No .  My motherland is here ," She's watching Striga again as she points to a region of the map on the easternmost shore of the Mediterranean Sea, curious when she scowls after a moment. " Do you remember where your home is ?"

" Kyiv ."

Morana lowers her hand, waits, and easily notices how Striga's eyes continue wandering the map. She thinks...it might be rude to ask, but... " Can you not read ?"

Now Striga scowls harder, her brows a solid bar of thready blackness above her eyes. " Forgotten ,  I think ."

As one who treasures knowledge almost as much as the blood that prolongs her afterlife, Morana feels a streak of horror. " We could help you learn again if you wish ."

Her expression doesn't change, even as her big body expands and contracts with a measured breath. " Where is Kyiv ?"

Morana doesn't hesitate now, raising her hand to point further east.

Striga pulls another slow, deep breath, exhaling through her nose. " So far ." She says distantly. Then the tension passes like her breath and she looks down at Morana, her curiosity replacing whatever she had been feeling a second ago. " Claws now ?"

" Ah ,  yes ,  please ,"

Striga follows her to the common table, watches as Morana pulls two chairs just far away enough to turn and face each other before occupying one of them. She thinks about it, unable to really hold onto a particular thought, deciding to let the effort go when Morana gestures her to the seat across from her. Striga actually mimics Morana, sitting as she does, just to see what it's like and if she'll have a reaction to it. She sees the way Morana's eyes gently widen in surprise, and notices how she feels a certain relief when Morana says nothing.

Morana  _ wants _ to say something, no doubt, but she withholds thinking it isn't really necessary. Surely Striga is aware enough to make little choices like this for herself without any input from her. Instead she turns her attention to the box on the table, pulling the lid up to reveal the collection of dainty looking implements inside, cradled in velvet.

" May I have your hand ?" She isn't surprised by the still so cautious gaze Striga gives her, how those eyes dart from her outstretched hand to her face and then back again. Morana watches thick gray fingers flex, the pad of her thumb running the pads of the others, before she tentatively reaches out, a testing offering.

Morana doesn't so much take her hand as much as she eases her own beneath Striga's to bear its weight. Her palm is smooth and cool and calloused, unexpectedly relaxed, and Morana likes the feel of it in her own, likes the way her hand is wholly dwarfed by Striga's. She offers Striga a soft, silent smile, hoping to convey something like gratitude for the mote of trust being shown.

Morana takes up a small penknife from the box, and thinks to try and start up a conversation on the chance that having a blade this close might make Striga uneasy. " Do you remember anything else ?"

Striga's focus quickly settles on her, her eyes now interested instead of cautious. " Pieces ."

Morana nods, her eyes dropping to mind the little blade as she navigates it oh so carefully to cut into stout, solid claw. She's done this countless times to maintain her own talons, so her nervousness at the task is minimal. " You say you are from Kyiv ,  do you remember anything about your time there ?"

Striga hums, her head dropping to the side to watch Morana's hands for a moment. Part of her wants to pull away, an instinct that she mentally argues with; it's present in spite of the lack of anything suggesting she's in danger here. Her mind flexes to suppress it, bringing it to heel and keeping her hand still as Morana works.

" I ... was a soldier. I think. Served King Oleg of ," she pauses, eyes off to the side to find that missing piece, " Novgorod. Yes ."

" The Rus ?"

Striga nods with the smallest smirk, finding a little happiness in someone else's familiarity.

" His reign ended in the early ninth century ." Morana watches Striga inch her shoulders, noncommittal. " Had you turned by then ?"

" Don't know ." a beat of quiet, a brow rising as the sharp angle of one talon falls away under Morana's careful hand. " Don't remember when that happened ... what year ?"

" At present ?  1387 ."

Striga is quiet for a time and Morana doesn't press her for more. Morana just goes about her task, focused and careful, quickly finishing up with trimming the talons on one hand and then gently requesting the other. This time Striga readily obliges, then takes a moment to study her fresh manicure with a hint of amused fascination. Morana loves that look on her, finds it painfully human, so to speak.

Then, seemingly out of the blue, Striga asked " Mongols still here ?"

" The Horde ?  No , I believe it was 1270 when they withdrew for good ." She watches as Striga's expression steadily darkens, brows slowly furrowing over several lengthy seconds.

" How long from then ?" because numbers never had been easy before, and they certainly weren't now.

Morana senses what this might be about, underneath the obvious, so she sees that her answer is delivered with a certain softness. " One hundred and seventeen years ."

Striga takes a breath. " Served with Mongols too .  Rode with them many years .  Fine rider ."

Now Morana senses that hidden something rising to the surface, like a corpse in a pond.

" Mongols took my mind ."

At first that makes a great deal of sense to Morana, it explains why she didn't recognize the sigils on the pendant. She knew very little about the Horde, only enough to have been able to coordinate military maneuvers to keep them  _ and _ the Hungarians out of Styria for the last century. But that revelation is thankfully short lived, Morana didn't think it really mattered now anyway. The remaining implications of what Striga had said hung heavily in her mind, took root there with a certain bitterness that Morana could almost taste. She contemplates the weight of it all as she silently continues with her task.

Striga expected questions, because if there was one thing she knew about Morana is that she liked to ask them. Something in her senses Morana wants to, and she watches her, waiting for something that never comes. Morana simply carries on, careful and quiet, until the job is done and her talons have been trimmed to a more manageable length. Striga doesn't immediately withdraw and, by the same token, Morana makes no motion to do so either. In fact those pale blue eyes are well fixed to their joined hands between them, the faintest lines in her delicate brow.

" That will not happen to you here ." Morana says carefully, not raising her eyes until a second later, when she says " If you choose to stay , you have my word that you will be perfectly safe ."

There's a knee-jerk distrust in Striga; no way it's that simple. " If I choose to leave ?"

" You will have what you need to travel wherever you wish to go ." No hesitation, no catch, just something that sounds like the truth.

But that suspicion is still there, even as Striga reads the open, vulnerable honesty on Morana's face. " You use me too ?  Your queen use me ?" She knows there is a distinct advantage to now being in the company of her own kind, but that didn't guarantee any sort of kindness. Never had.

" I will not lie , Carmilla may ask something of you ,  as queen that is her privilege ,  but you will  always have a choice ."

Silence hangs between them, right beside the tension that had taken up residence in the room some minutes ago. For what feels like a short eternity they simply look at each other, Morana feeling as though Striga is measuring her in a way, weighing her words for anything she might actually believe.

" If I stay , you help me remember ?"

" H owever I am able ,  yes ."

Striga expression stretches with mild surprise before quickly morphing neutral. Then she carefully pulls back her hand, the whisper of friction between skin and skin strangely loud, and shifts to lounge a little in her seat as she studies it. Then she stands.

" Thank you ." it sounds abrupt, a half thought. " Excuse please ... need to think ."

Morana doesn't resist, doesn't argue, simply nods and lets her leave.

_(II)_

_(Much of the dialogue in this section should be considered spoken in Slavic, just to clarify.)_

Another week passes, and conversation never broaches the conditions surround Striga's staying in the palace again. As far as Morana was concerned, she could stay as long as she wished, no questions asked, but she  _did_ get the feeling that Striga had an itch to...reciprocate in some way. 

And, as it stands, Striga seems to think that can only be done by being as little of a bother as possible. There is a distinct discomfort about her in asking for things, enough that she forgoes it entirely, even if she has a genuine need. Morana keys in on this rather quickly, however, and assures Striga in every possible way that she isn't being a burden, and that the staff is explicitly there to help her.

In a way, Morana understands; she can only imagine how conflicting it must feel for Striga to give orders to others after everything.

They continue with their visits. Striga opens up a little more each night, her language and memory improving by small but obvious increments. One evening Morana enters Striga's chambers and is momentarily puzzled to see her seated in front of a glowing hearth -usually this meant that she wasn't up for conversation. But then Morana feels a streak of panic when she realizes Striga  _has her arm elbow deep in the fire_ and hurries over. Without the slightest sign of worry, Striga simply turns her head, greets her, and withdraws her hand. Sure enough, a bloated tongue of flame sits in her large palm, strangely content there, and Striga keeps her curious eyes on Morana as she passes the glowing heat between her hands. Like she doesn't feel it.

Morana stops just a few steps away, staring for just a moment. "...You know magic?"

"Came to me in a dream today, wanted to see if it was true." Striga smiles at her, a uniquely pleased and soft thing. "Sit?"

"Oh, yes, thank you." There's a plush chair beside the hearth, and Morana perches on the edge of it, the surprise on her face replaced with raw interest. "Anything else come to you?"

"Not much...not new, anyway." She lilts her head from side to side, a dismissive sniff. Striga feels as though she has a great many dreams, saying nothing in regards to her ability to comprehend any of them. Then again, dreaming still felt terribly new.

Morana just watches her a moment, follows the fistful of flame pass between those big hands, marveling and quietly...proud? Perhaps a little, though she isn't sure why. Maybe it was a touch of validation, some evidence to support the quiet faith she had in Striga's potential, something she has been better acquainted with only recently.

"You do magic?"

Striga's sudden question breaks Morana's whimsy, making her shake her head a little to center her attention again. "In a way, though not like you." she watches Striga's head cock to one side, a very dog-like look, and continues. "I could take that fire from your hand, but it would only keep for a moment, and I would likely be burned."

Striga's expression becomes one of troubled understanding, and she immediately douses the fire by clutching her hand into a fist.

"But I am glad for you." Morana goes on to say, feeling a need to reassure her. "We have resident magicians that could teach you more, if you're interested."

That mild discomfort hasn't lifted from Striga's face, but has morphed with a touch of curiosity. "...Why do you keep helping me?"

Morana's mouth hangs for a moment, her mind seeming to skip a beat, unsure if she heard correctly. "What do you mean?"

"What have I done to earn the kindness?"

"I...well...must kindness be earned?" She realizes how ridiculous she must sound the moment the last word leaves her mouth. She doubles back with a irritated exhale. "I do it because I wish to, that's all, and I have no expectations for return gestures."

Striga's expression sours a little further.

"Perhaps I just enjoy your company."

"Because you're lonely?" She asks it plainly, sincerely. Yes, her mind is still in quite a few pieces, but she can still read people, can still sense things they aren't saying. When all Morana can do is fumble over various attempts at an answer, Striga smirks. "Caught you?"

"I...yes, perhaps you have." she gave a breathy, pitiful laugh, a sound of defeat. "Admittedly, my position doesn't leave much room for companionship."

"So that is why you keep me?"

"I do not  _keep_ you. As I have said before, you are always free to leave."

"But you don't want me to, so you keep offering reasons to stay." Striga watches her closely, only feeling a twinge of guilt for the way Morana suddenly can't hold her gaze. "Truth is all I want. No more."

Morana has to bring her racing thoughts to heel; it isn't that she doesn't want to answer, it's that there are  _many_ different answers to the one question. She feels the need to choose carefully, filtering between things that are much too personal and things that Striga probably wouldn't believe to begin with. It was obvious Striga already had an idea as to her motivation, so there was no point in trying to avoid that.

"You're right." She begins carefully, acknowledging the facts as they are. "But, by the same token, what happened to you was wrong, and I feel a need to at least try to make it right. I  _want_ to  _help_ ."

Striga's brows furrow, her head still slanting to one side, then she says "You are a strange woman."

Morana balks. "Surely no stranger than you!"

"...That's true."

A part of Morana feels like Striga should have felt insulted by that, yet seeing her so unbothered only served to irritate Morana further. The feelings build up until the only thing she can think to do in response is put her tongue between her lips and give Striga a curt raspberry.

Now, usually, something so immature and undisciplined would have mortified Morana, but then she sees Striga throw back her head and laugh -really  _laugh_ \- and she just...can't feel any shame whatsoever. 

How could she, when Striga laughs so beautifully?

Striga steadily composes herself, though a smile lingers, and she looks at Morana with eyes so bright that Morana feels her heart startle as they settle on her.

"So you teach me?" Striga asks after a moment. "Help me remember?"

"Well, perhaps not me  _personally_ , but yes."

"Teach me your words, your letters?" Striga watches as Morana readily nods. "Let me ride again?" Another nod. "Put a sword back in my hand?" And one more. Then Striga nods to herself, initially appearing satisfied, then she cuts a sideways, guarded look. "What if I wish to leave, even after that?"

"As I've said, you're not our prisoner. However, if it is your intention to leave, I would encourage you to wait, that you might have the tools you need to better survive on your own."

Sable brows drop. "I survive just fine."

"I don't doubt that, but this way it would be  _easier_ . Life shouldn't have to be a struggle for our kind."

At first it appears Striga has a response ready, but then pauses, looking uncomfortably curious for a moment. It's the look of someone presented with a concept so wholly contrary to everything they know they just can't process it. After a long moment Striga simply shakes her head, meaning to put that away to perhaps examine later.

Then Striga takes a deep, slow breath, looking into the rumbling fire until her lungs are empty again. After that, her eyes are back on Morana, tentatively trusting. "So how do we begin?"

Morana cannot help but pull a full smile, fangs and all. "Well, there isn't much to be done tonight on such short notice, but I can start making arrangements for your lessons, introduce you to your potential tutors. One thing we can certainly do tonight is take you to stables that you might find a suitable horse."

Striga lights up and smiles in a way the suggests excitement, and Morana wishes she could put that expression in a bottle to keep.

Author's Note: I told myself I would work on my manuscript, but that's not happening right now for a number of reasons, so I tide myself over with more fandom wank. I haven't decided yet if I'm going to write the entirety of this AU, but there's a good chance I will. A lot of my decision making is going to come down to audience feedback, so if you want to see more of this, please tell me. Kudos are always appreciated, but unless folks tell me in plain terms that they want more content, it's likely I won't do it. Kudos just tell me "I enjoyed it" not that you want more. I don't do well with assumptions. Lots of love and see you around, thanks for taking the time to read.


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